The Armada Legacy (31 page)

But Serrato only seemed even more delighted. ‘I designed much of the place myself, you know. Of course it would be my pleasure to show you around. It is your home as much as mine, as I hope you now understand.’

‘I do understand,’ she replied softly, then paused. ‘There was something else I was wondering—’

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘The piano I saw the other day … might I be allowed to play it from time to time?’

‘The Steinway? But of course. How you keep your talents hidden from me. I didn’t know you could play.’

Why the hell would you
, she thought. He was talking as though he’d known her for years. And after last night, she was beginning to understand why that might be.

What had he done to Alicia?
The thought chilled her to the core.
You sick, sick bastard
.

But she only smiled and replied, ‘Oh, yes, I love music. I had some lessons when I was a little girl and had thought about taking it up again. Maybe you could teach me?’

‘Oh, I only tinker a little,’ he said, beaming. ‘I believe it’s important to be immersed in the arts, so I took it up some years ago. Though I would hardly describe myself as anything more than a dilettante.’

‘You play beautifully,’ she said.

Lunch was served at the little table on the terrace: a light salad with crusty French baguette, along with a crisp white wine. Serrato seemed much more relaxed than she had seen him before, and very pleased with himself, sitting back with his legs stretched out in front of him, pouring glass after glass of wine. It was Brooke’s first taste of open air since her kidnapping, and even in the presence of this man she hated so strongly, she savoured every moment; the sun on her face, the warm breeze in her hair. When she’d finished eating she stood up and leaned on the ornate railing, gazing out at the view with her half-empty glass in her hand.

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Serrato said, joining her and topping up her wine.

‘Spectacular,’ she replied airily. She’d actually been taking careful note of a part of the compound she wasn’t able to see from her rooms.

‘You’re looking at my ancestral heritage,’ he laughed, pointing at the distant jungle. ‘A gift from the King of Spain.’

She looked at him. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

‘Not in the least. In all, nearly half a million acres,’ he said grandly. ‘And one day it will make us two of the richest people in the world.’

Us
. She flinched inwardly, but to show her emotions now would be fatal. ‘Looks to me like you’re already a rich man, Ramon,’ she said.

He chuckled. ‘I admit, I have not done too badly for a boy from the slums, who grew up fighting for scraps. I was determined to do well in life, and thanks to that determination I have been prosperous. But the wealth you see around you here is nothing in comparison to what we will have once my real plans come to fruition. You see,’ he went on, taking another gulp of wine and mistaking her stony silence for curiosity, ‘growing up I was never able to forget my grandfather’s stories, and his belief that our family had noble Spanish roots. But it was not until seven years ago, when I was already a highly successful businessman at the age of thirty-six, that I finally took it upon myself to travel to Spain to find out more. I spoke to so many scholars: historians, museum curators; I spent countless hours buried in ancient archives, tracing back the name Serrato through the ages.’

He poured the last of the wine into his glass, talking freely now that the alcohol had loosened his reserve. ‘That was when I made the four greatest discoveries of my life,’ he went on. ‘The first, that my grandfather had been telling the truth. The second, that my noble ancestry comprised not only Spanish, but also English aristocratic blood. The third, that my English ancestor, Sir Christopher Pennick, had been awarded a vast tract of land by Philip II for, shall we say, various services to Spain.’ Serrato smiled. ‘Sadly, it is not until now, five hundred years later, that the King’s gift to my family has finally been legitimised and passed to me, the sole surviving heir.’ He waved his glass over the distant jungle. ‘I drink to Roger Forsyte, who made it all possible. Welcome to my empire. Nobody can stand in my way any longer.’

Now Brooke understood the connection with Forsyte. That was the key to this whole thing: land. Sam had died for the sake of land. ‘And what was the fourth discovery, Ramon?’ she asked, trying hard not to let the disgust show on her face.

‘Black gold,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The largest untapped oil field in Peru. For five hundred years it has been sitting waiting for me. And now it is mine.’

For the first time in days, Brooke suddenly knew where she was. It seemed surreal to her that she could be in Peru, a country she’d barely ever even thought about.

Well, I won’t be in Peru much longer,
she thought to herself, and gazed across the jungle.

After lunch Serrato took her to the salon where the piano was. He graciously pulled out the piano stool for her, fussed over getting it to exactly the correct height, then pressed her to play something for him. Brooke sat down, laid her fingers on the keys and desperately tried to remember the notes of a simple little Bach minuet that she’d played as a twelve-year-old. The piece came back to her, but her fingers were clumsy and her performance was stumbling and filled with mistakes.

Serrato chuckled at the wrong notes. Bending very close over her, he took her hands in his and showed her how to position them on the keyboard. ‘The trick is not to stab the notes. You must caress them with a lover’s touch. There, that’s much better,’ he said as she tried again. She felt his hands rest on her shoulders. ‘You have such beautiful hair,’ he whispered. He bent down even closer and kissed her head. Ran his hands down her arms. She tensed and took her fingers off the keys.

‘You are afraid of me,’ he said.

‘A little.’

‘You have nothing to fear, Brooke.’

She looked earnestly up at him. ‘You have to understand. All this has been a bit of a shock to me. But I’ll try. Just give me time.’

‘You make me very happy, Brooke.’ He paused. ‘You know, you matter to me very much. I will do anything I can to make you comfortable.’

Okay,
she thought.
You’ve softened him up a little and now here’s your chance.
‘Some ventilation would be nice,’ she said.

‘Ventilation?’

‘In my room. I always used to have the window open at night at my home in London. In my old life, I mean,’ she added.

‘The air conditioning displeases you? You would like your windows to open instead?’

‘It helps me sleep. And I love to be able to smell the flowers when I wake up in the morning. Can you fix that for me?’

‘Anything can be done,’ he said with a casual gesture. ‘But, my dear, you are unused to life here. The mosquitoes will eat you alive while you sleep. They carry malaria.’

‘Then maybe I could have a mosquito net over my bed?’ she asked. ‘Please, Ramon?’

He frowned, then smiled. ‘Bah. What man could refuse such a beguiling lady’s wishes? If that is what you wish, I will have it seen to immediately.’ He summoned a servant and gave very detailed instructions. The man noted everything down, nodded solemnly and left. ‘Now,’ Serrato said, turning to Brooke. ‘You were saying you would like to be shown around?’

The rest of the long, hot afternoon was spent strolling around the enormous house. Serrato guided her attentively from room to room, opening doors for her and ushering her about in a self-consciously gentlemanlike fashion. He loved to talk proudly about his possessions, and he had a great many to talk about: the antique furniture pieces that had come from such and such a boutique in New York, London or Rome; the history of each painting and its artist; a detailed account of the design of every architectural feature. He was knowledgeable, even passionate, and despite the hatred that intensified with every minute she had to spend in his company, Brooke had to concede that the man had excellent taste. As the guided tour went on, she took feverish note of as many details of the place’s layout as she could cram into her memory. By the time he led her to the stairs to show her the top floor, she knew exactly how to get from her room to the main entrance.

Serrato had saved the best for last. At the top of the stairs he pushed open a door and led her inside a set of rooms that could have passed for the Presidential Suite in the world’s most opulent hotel. ‘My humble quarters,’ he said with a glow in his eye. ‘Does the style please you? Be honest with me. I can have the décor remodelled any way you like. After all, one day …’

She caught his meaning and wanted to throw up. ‘I wouldn’t change a thing, Ramon,’ she said, extremely careful with her words.

Serrato’s smile suddenly disappeared. He stepped closer to her, reached out and clasped her arms to draw her towards him. The urge to back away from him was overwhelming, but she knew that to give in to it would be fatal.

‘You are so special to me,’ his voice murmured in her ear as he held her tight. ‘More special than I could ever explain to you.’ He drew back from her so that he could look into her eyes. ‘Do you think, Brooke, that you could ever love me?’

Brooke’s heart was thumping hard. ‘Let’s play it by ear, Ramon. All right? See how it goes.’

‘But you … you like me?’

She could see the dangerous light in his eyes. ‘You’re a very charming man,’ she forced herself to say. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been the kind of woman who …’ She hesitated. ‘Who rushes into things. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’

‘Yes. You are saying you would refuse me.’

Brooke said nothing.

‘I will give you everything, Brooke. Do anything to please you. But you cannot refuse me. I could not bear that.’

She swallowed hard. ‘I won’t refuse you.’

‘Tonight, I regret to say that you must dine without me. I have some business to attend to. Afterwards, when I return … will you come to me? Here, in my personal quarters?’

‘Tonight?’

‘I will send for you,’ he said. ‘Will you be ready for me then?’

Brooke was suddenly very cold.

‘You and I,’ he whispered, holding her tightly again. ‘You have no idea how much I have longed for it.’

The guards led Brooke back to her room. She leaned against the door, heard the click of the lock sliding home. Footsteps padded away and the guards’ voices faded into the distance.

And only then did all the pent-up tension burst out of her in a sobbing gasp. So this was it. Serrato had finally made his move. That night she’d be summoned to him, like the slave girl to the master. To be claimed. To be made his kept whore.

And if she refused, he’d kill her. There was no doubt whatsoever about that.

Slowly, she peeled herself away from the door and crossed the room. That was when she noticed that the windows looked different. Where before they’d been unopenable, now they had latch handles. She tried one. It glided smoothly open as far as the steel bars would allow, letting the breeze into the room.

Brooke nodded to herself. Her plan couldn’t have started coming together any later now that the clock was truly ticking. But it wasn’t fresh air she was interested in. She went through into the bedroom and saw to her relief that the men who’d fixed the windows had also obeyed their instructions to fit a mosquito net to the four-poster. The translucent micro-netting hung down from the canopy almost to the floor.

Perfect. Now for a small experiment.

In the bathroom, she picked up one of the Chanel perfume bottles. She unscrewed the cap of the spray nozzle and poured a few drops of the liquid into the sink. Then, slipping two fingers into the cup of her bra, she took out the slim lighter she’d stolen from the cigar-smoking guard on the stairs when she’d pretended to stumble. A bra was the only place you could quickly hide anything when you were forced to wear such impractical clothing all the time. As frightened as she’d been that Serrato was going to try to touch her earlier, she’d been even more terrified that he might find the lighter there.

She pressed the little piezo switch and an inch-long tongue of yellow flame darted from the lighter. She lowered it into the sink, touched the flame to the tiny pool of perfume, and drew her hand away quickly as it flared up with a brief but spectacular
whoosh
. That was what just a few drops of the stuff could produce. There was about a litre of it sitting on her bathroom shelf.

She squirted a load more perfume into the air and then sprayed hairspray all over the place to cover up any smell of burning that might have escaped the bathroom. Then, shaking with nerves now that her plan was finally about to become a reality, she started attending to the rest of her arrangements.

Time passed. Dinner was served to her in her room: a plate of cold meats and salad on a tray together with a half-bottle of chilled wine. She was too anxious to touch any of it. Instead she emptied a pack of cotton makeup-remover pads into the bin in the bathroom and used the empty plastic packaging to wrap up the cold meats.

Then all she could do was wait quietly in the bedroom, going over and over in her mind all that she needed to do. There was no going back any more. The alternative was unthinkable.

It was sometime before midnight when she heard the door unlock. Moments later, Hatchet Face appeared in the bedroom doorway. She was carrying a slim white box like the one Consuela had brought to Brooke’s room on the first night.

Hatchet Face laid the box down on the bed. Her lips drew back into a sly smile, revealing the gaps in her teeth. She reached her big, coarse hands into the box and pulled out a silky garment that she held up for Brooke to see.

The negligee was so insubstantial and transparent that it made the nightdress Serrato had given her before look like something a prude would wear. There was something else in the box: Brooke peered inside and saw the flimsy colour-matched stockings and suspenders.

‘You put on,’ Hatchet Face said. ‘Señor Serrato, he wait for you.’

Chapter Forty-Two

The torrid heat of a South American summer wrapped itself around Ben and Nico like a damp towel as they stepped off the overnight Iberia jet that had left wintry Madrid almost exactly twelve hours earlier, and crossed the tarmac at Jorge
Chávez International Airport, Lima, Peru. By the time they’d got into arrivals their shirts were already sticking to them, and it was still early morning.